


the brighest flames

by lesbiyawn



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Light Angst, POV First Person, backstory speculation, unique pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 10:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15838962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbiyawn/pseuds/lesbiyawn
Summary: “Lucien was buried that day but I was not ready for him. I watched and waited until the dirt shifted and a new mind rose from the grave like a vine blossoming for the first time in years. Lucien may have been put to rest but Mollymauk had just been born.”





	the brighest flames

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Critical Role fic and I wanted it to be special. So much time has passed and I still miss Molly. 
> 
> A lot of his backstory is speculation and probably completely incorrect so take it with a grain of salt.

I have sensed a great deal of turmoil inside the body of that purple tiefling since the beginning. Since before all of you came to know him as Mollymauk Tealeaf. I have followed him as a babe and as a dastardly criminal and as a lost boy in the carnival. The name may have changed but the form stayed the same.

None in Exandria caught my attention quite as much as him, not even my beloved champion. You see, it is rare for one to escape my grasp as easily as he did.

Since his childhood he was always up to something. Being a trickster with purple skin and horns landed him in trouble more than once, but he knew how to weave his way out of chains.

I studied with watchful eyes as the harmless pranks became well-orchestrated ploys to rob passersby of their coin. The childlike innocence faded as a hardened cutpurse was born. He chased new thrills, no longer satisfied with the life he had been given. He was a child. Then a charlatan. Then a murderer.

The first time he spilt blood he was only a teenager. A gamble gone wrong in the dark alleys with the wrong crowd. His own hubris shattering as vigilant stares read the weighted dice like a sonnet. The duped man - a soldier with a violent streak, suffering an unhappy marriage and scars from a lifetime on the front lines, I believe - reaching out to grab his neck. I had been ready to coddle him that day, to welcome him into my arms as I felt the life being squeezed out through the stranger’s hands. Lucien remained stubborn and determined to keep me at bay, drawing a blade from his backside. The grip around Lucien’s neck grew weaker and weaker with each blow delivered.

I came for his victim and studied his eyes, as red as the blood soaking his clothes. The thieving street rat now a killer. I collected my due as he ran - ran from his pursuers, from his actions, from me.

Lucien did not get very far. From his pursuers, at least. They were not kind to that lavender skinned tiefling. His body became home to his first cuts and bruises, the start of the many scars to come. They left the boy on the street, his aching body coloring the street a deep maroon.

When he awoke the next day, the butcher was born.

The once thrilling games he played no longer brought fulfillment. The reward too low, the stakes not high enough.

He made more friends as he aged, none of the gentle sort. Marauders and thieves became his company, cheats and cutthroats his allies.

Many of jobs brought him loot, many brought him more scars.

Lucien received the crisscrossed slices across his chest while tied to a mast and with a sailor’s sword to his throat. His grin remained as he bled, breath ever calm.

It was while working for an order that Lucien met his tabaxi friend. His allegiances no longer lay with the group and he gathered a following to lead on his own. The tabaxi remained loyal to him, bending to his every word.

He declared them the Tomb Takers. I smiled upon the name and of the irony that would follow.

I watched as he participated in the faulty ritual, thrashing as his body fought to survive. I listened to his thundering heartbeat and rapid breaths. I tasted the fear that enveloped him, the fear he hadn’t felt since he took the soldier’s life years ago. I stood a spectator as his body fell limp.

His tabaxi friend had been distraught. I wished I could have comforted her, to tell her it was not truly his time. But it is not my job to comfort.

Lucien was buried that day but I was not ready for him. I watched and waited until the dirt shifted and a new mind rose from the grave like a vine blossoming for the first time in years. Lucien may have been put to rest but Mollymauk had just been born.

I relived Lucien’s childhood as I observed Mollymauk learning life. His eyes were wide at the world and his frown could not interpret the many vicious markings across his body.

He stumbled through forest and town, through grass and pavement, before falling at Gustav’s feet. The carnival became his new home, oddities welcoming him into their ranks. I felt the camaraderie amongst the patchwork family. The loyalty of Lucien and the Tomb Takers lived on through Mollymauk and his new friends.

I watched as he treated his body like a canvas, painting his skin and decorating his horns, each new adornment more ostentatious than the last. The longer he was with the carnival, the more he came out of his shell. His velvety voice grew more confident and playful, reminiscent of his past life.

I smiled as he toiled with tarot cards. But I could not feel the malicious intent of Lucien. Instead, I felt the allurement of a man trying to better the lives of strangers.

I could not help but laugh at his tricks. Many were just like those he preformed as a child, though he would scarcely remember.

The confidence coursing through his veins as he impersonated a long dead monarch, reveling in the fine faux silks he wore. The hefty laugh escaping his lips as he collected the coins from strangers in a bar, only to pay for their next round with his own purse. The glint in his eyes as he shared a promising fortune with a love struck woman swooning over the local Crownsguard.

I turned a blind eye to the many intimate moments he shared with the occasional warm body. Lovers of differing genders and races learned him under the sheets and in the streets and on tables and in stables.

I felt fate lace itself in the air as Mollymauk met the aasimar for the first time.

He had woken in a barn after a night with a farmhand with pleasant bruises and torn clothing. As he had stumbled his way around, he spotted the sleeping form of a woman. I knew Yasha personally. Her own story has been partially written by me.

He kneeled beside her and studied her cuts and bruises. Unlike his own, Yasha’s had come from the pain of a fight. He stayed with her until she awoke, calming her thrashing body and dodging the punches she threw his way. A kiss to the temple had soothed her torment and he would continue the act anytime he saw fit.

Yasha meant another oddity added to the carnival’s growing collection. She spoke rarely but she and Mollymauk spent times of bliss together, simply appreciating each other’s presence.

They traveled to see the expanse of the empire, admiring the rolling hills and distant mountains. They made a home for themselves inside the carnival.

It was a shame I was a part of what ruined that.

Mollymauk had his family taken from him. But by the twists and turns of fate, he was granted with a new one. They had troubled pasts of their own and carried burdens no one could lift. I studied his new companions with an intense gaze, wondering when I would someday meet them. 

The half-orc remained out of reach, another entity protecting him from my kiss.

The human monk had always been an interest of mine. I had yet to see reason to call her to me.

The other tiefling brought me amusement but, much like the half-orc, was shrouded in the protection of another.

The goblin had helped send many to me, although I believe many times she did not act of her own accord.

The other human was reminded of my presence often. I remember taking his family into my arms when he was but a young, foolish boy.

I followed the path they carved into the world, watching them like a vulture watches a limping doe. I greeted many of their foes as they traveled, in various states before me. Beaten. Slashed. Poisoned. Impaled. Charred. 

As I continued to complete my task, I observed fate tie itself around them. I knew I was watching history in the making, much like when I watched my champion and his friends change the world around them.

I watched on as Mollymauk paraded, flaunting himself proudly like the peacock adorning his body. I sat in the shadows as he struggled to confront his past in front of the others. I laughed as he defiled himself for the sake of an absurd plan. I stood proud as he defended his friends in the ring. 

His loyalty grew, a trait I knew would be his undoing.

There was naught I could do as his three friends left camp and were taken in the cover of night. I knew their captors well. The suffering they caused echoes around me. Their victims welcomed my embrace to escape torment at their hands.

I watched with a painful recognition as Mollymauk stood against their leader, only to quickly fall.

I felt the taut pull of fate’s strings as Mollymauk stared into the eyes of his end. The person I had watched grow would finally join my company. The thought did not bring a smile to my face.

I knew his friends would not be pleased with me. I could see the despair in the monk’s face and the fear in the goblin’s eyes and the pained look of familiarity on the sorcerer as I reached for Mollymauk. 

I severed his connection to the world, snipping away at the thread. But, as I tugged upon the red cord wrapped in my hands, I felt it catch on another.

The peculiar thing is, while the body of Mollymauk had crumbled before me, his essence had lived on in another. I followed the trail, past hills and through gates, into shady streets and around corrupted trees. I was led to a forest, into one of my favorite places: a well-kept graveyard with the most unique caretaker. I found Mollymauk’s thread tangling itself around him.

I smiled upon the new face as he looked upon the sky. He could feel my presence, something quite rare for me.

“Well,” he said. “I haven’t had a visitor in so long. Care for some tea?”

**Author's Note:**

> If it wasn’t made clear, the Raven Queen/Death is the narrator. The Book Thief is one of my favorite books and writing a fic using Death was too good to pass up.


End file.
